Losing The Plot
by Screaming Ferret
Summary: Plots, fishnets, and the Good Doc can't get no respect...


Disclaimer: Hannibal, Clarice and other characters mentioned here   
are not mine. Please don't mention Copyright Law...   
  
A/N: Plots, fish-nets, and the good Doc can't get no respect...   
Inspired by Helene and Diana. Thanks ladies! *grins*. Oh, and ta to   
my mate Squiz for his enlightening comments on Teletubbies   
  
  
Losing The Plot  
  
  
In a dark, dark room, in a dark, dark house, a computer screen   
glowed in electronic splendor.  
  
A door creaked open, disturbing the silence of the room. A female   
figure clad in jeans and a tatty t-shirt padded barefoot towards the   
computer, like a faithful supplicant approaching a strange God.  
  
The girl sat down. There was a brief pause as she carefully balanced   
a teddy-bear mug on top of a battered copy of 'The Divine Comedy'.   
Seconds later, the sound of typing filled the room.  
  
When the clicking of the keyboard halted for the typer to take a   
much-needed swig of caffeine, a dark shape detached itself from the   
shadows, strolled forward and peered over the author's shoulder at   
the glowing screen.  
  
"Fish-nets? Again?"  
  
The author leapt from her seat, spraying coffee all over her keyboard   
and monitor. She flung her mug down and turned to face the intruder.  
  
" Must you do that?"  
  
"Do what?"  
  
"Sneak up on me like that!"  
  
He looked affronted. "Of course. It's what I do."  
  
The author glared at him as he slipped smoothly past her, and   
pointed at the computer screen.  
  
"Explain."  
  
"Explain what, Dr Lecter?"  
  
His maroon eyes narrowed dangerously. "Explain why it is necessary   
for me to wear fish-net stockings, a little black number and - " he   
choked - "a *lamp-shade* in your latest fic."  
  
"Oh, that..." She waved it aside breezily. "It's part of the plot."  
  
He stared at her with an expression of growing incredulity. "What   
plot, on what planet, could possibly feature 'Hannibal the Cannibal'   
dressed as a *French maid?*"  
  
The author shrugged. "Mine. Please excuse me, Doctor, but I want to   
post this tonight."  
  
She made to sit back down again, but Dr Lecter was quicker. He   
darted in front of the computer and stood there, arms folded,   
glowering.  
  
"Who am I?" he demanded.  
  
She stared at him. "Doctor Hannibal Lecter, of course."  
  
"Of course. *What* am I?"  
  
She gulped. "Um, a cannibal?"  
  
"Correct! And I will not - repeat NOT - suffer the indignity of   
prancing around a stage in fish-net stockings once more. Understood?"  
  
Meeting his fearsome eyes, the author mentally gathered her courage.   
"I'm afraid, sir, that it's part of the plot. And I've already   
written it. You *will* do it." It took every ounce of courage and   
sheer foolhardiness she possessed to not drop her gaze from his.  
  
The good doctor seemed nonplussed. People rarely, if ever, dared to   
contradict him. It was not something he was used to.   
  
"I'm a *monster!*" he yelled. "I don't do drag and I don't do   
children's parties! Good heavens, next you'll have me dressing up as   
Barney the purple dinosaur!"  
  
It was unusual to see the doctor so agitated. Sparks flew from his   
eyes, and he paced up and down, waving his hands in the air.  
  
There was a small silence after that last statement. Then -   
  
She giggled. She couldn't help it.  
  
Slowly, very slowly, he turned to face her. "Yes?" The word had it's   
very own iceberg.  
  
"B-B-Barney...." She sank into the chair, gasping for breath. "   
Barney!" When she had recovered enough to speak polysyllabic words,   
she looked up, grinning.   
  
He regarded her with a mystified expression.  
  
"Thanks. Nice twist..."  
  
Dr Lecter lunged forwards, grabbing the wheeled computer chair - and   
her - and slamming them both into the wall.  
  
"Don't. Even. Think. About. It." he growled, his face inches from   
hers.  
  
Eyes wide, she shook her head vehemently. "Nosir. No way. You have   
my word."  
  
Dr Lecter seemed satisfied. He stepped away. The author,   
unfortunately perhaps, chose this moment to pipe up with "But what   
about Tinky Winky?"  
  
The good doctor stopped dead. "Tinky Winky?" he whispered.  
  
"Um, yeah. Oh, I've got a great plot for that one..."  
  
"With the handbag."  
  
"Of course. Tinky Winky is gay, y'know."  
  
He blinked, very slowly, like a lizard caught in car headlights.   
"Absolutely NOT. Under no circumstances whatsoever. As for the   
French Maid, who do you think I am? Elton John?" He shuddered.  
  
The author rose, her face set. "It's the plot" she reminded him. She   
knew perfectly well that fictional characters cannot argue with the   
plot.  
  
It was typical Lecter that he seemed to feel that the rules of   
fiction did not apply to him.  
  
"Which plot?" he snapped. "The Rocky Horror Show?"  
  
She shook her head. "Nah. Someone's already done that."  
  
"Regardless of who's done what, I ain't doing it!"  
  
She gaped at him, her jaw dropping open in shock. " Ain't? But - but   
- that's not proper grammar!. Dr Lecter, that's slang!" Never, ever,   
had she dreamed of hearing slang from the mouth of Lecter. It was   
beyond belief. It was as unlikely as a hippopotamus donning a pink   
tutu and joining the Royal Ballet.  
  
The temperature in the room dropped noticeably.  
  
"You're being rude...." he purred.  
  
"I AM NOT BEING RUDE! I AM NOT GONNA LOSE THE PLOT THIS TIME!" she   
howled, looking quite deranged. Dr Lecter had to take two steps   
backwards, or risk being deafened. Obviously, he had underestimated   
fanfiction author´ tendencies to cling on to the plot - any plot -   
once they had one.  
  
Chest heaving and eyes wild, the author glared across the room at   
the doctor. He seemed just about to speak, when there was a tap on   
the door. Both heads turned towards it.  
  
A boy poked his head cautiously around the door. He looked straight   
through Dr Lecter - it was as if he could not see him at all.  
  
"Mum says if you're gonna keep screaming at the computer, she's   
gonna call the special ambulance for you." With that, he   
disappeared.  
  
Dr Lecter grinned. "Special ambulance? Would they like a   
psychological evaluation too?"  
  
"Huh. Thanks." The author appeared to have calmed a little. She   
sidled towards the computer again.  
  
A powerful arm shot out, barring her way. "I don't think so" he said   
coldly. "We haven't resolved the matter of the French maid yet. Or   
the lamp-shade..."  
  
She stared at him in exasperation. "If you think I'm gonna rewrite   
the whole thing again, they you're wrong. It's only one little   
scene. What's wrong with that?"  
  
The doctor seemed to swell with indignation. "What's wrong with   
that? What's wrong with it?! I have a REPUTATION! How can I be   
terrifying while wearing a lamp-shade? The sleeveless vest in the   
film was bad enough..."  
  
She backed up as he approached, his eyes blazing. When she felt her   
back against the wall, she gave a little whimper.  
  
The doctor smirked. He picked her up by her t-shirt, holding her   
against the wall. The girl's eyes were as round as saucers, her feet   
dangled above the floor.  
  
"You've forgotten the first rule of Lecterphiles everywhere, haven't   
you?"   
  
There was a very audible gulp.  
  
"Never forget what he is!" he hissed, baring his teeth. "Oh, little   
fan-fic author, I am going to make you suffer."  
  
The author had regained a little of her voice. "What - what're you   
gonna do?"  
  
Dr Lecter smiled, a frightening sight. "Two words for you, my dear.   
Copyright. Law." He let her go and stepped backwards. She scuttled   
away, staring at him in horror.  
  
Copyright Law. The words that strike terror into the heart of any   
fanfiction author. She knew the Anne Rice fic groups had already   
suffered that blow.  
  
"You wouldn't dare."  
  
"Try me." He smiled again.  
  
The author shook her head. "No, you won't. Who keeps you in business   
in the decade or so between books? And in the years between films.   
Without us, you'd be nothing. Worse, you'd be bored." She knew her   
subject all right.   
  
The doctor looked surprised. He hadn't counted on her calling his   
bluff.  
  
She drove the point home. "Rumor has it that Tom Harris isn't   
writing another Lecter book. What if you're out of a job? What then,   
Doctor?"  
  
Dr Lecter snarled. "Fine. I was bluffing. But I'm not wearing that   
ridiculous costume."  
  
"You are."  
  
" Make me."  
  
"Fine." She strode to the center of the room. "Clarice!"  
  
There was a pause. Then another figure emerged from the shadows.   
This person moved with the same athletic grace as Dr Lecter.   
  
"Hannibal!"  
  
"Clarice!"   
  
Dr Lecter almost leapt forward and hugged her. "Clarice, you   
wouldn't believe what this writer -" he glared at the author "wants   
me to do."  
  
There was another silence as Clarice perused the screen.  
  
The author edged away. This could get nasty...  
  
Clarice grinned. Dr Lecter looked horrified.  
  
"Oh Hannibal, where's your sense of humor?"  
  
"I drowned it in the fish-tank."  
  
"Shame. I think you look good in women's clothes."  
  
He shook his head. "Clarice, please! Not in company!"  
  
Clarice Starling laughed. "Come on, it'll be fun" she coaxed.  
  
The author stared in astonishment at the pair. Her last card had   
worked. A smug grin settled on her face. Every Lecterphile knew that   
the good doctor would do anything for his lady. Oh, the   
possibilities....  
  
The argument was one-sided.  
  
"Why does nobody ever listen to me?" Dr Lecter sulked as Clarice set   
a frilly white maid's cap on his head.  
  
"Oh, stop grousing" she told him. She brandished a feather duster.   
"Now, remember, swish and flick. Got that?"  
  
"It's hardly difficult" he grumbled, waving the duster.  
  
The author watched them from her computer chair. She lounged there,   
trying not to appear too smug. She didn't want to upset the doctor,   
after all.  
  
"Hey, cheer up!" she told him brightly. "You think my fic's bad - my   
friend once wrote you into a pink, sequined G-string and a very   
compromising position with Yoda."  
  
It was worth it all, she reflected, just for the look on his face.   
Priceless.  
  
FIN 


End file.
